


Tradeoff

by ierohno



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bahorel also really likes salad, Eventual Relationships, Fluff, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, Les Amis de l'ABC Shenanigans, M/M, R is basically gonna sell Bahorel, R is done with Bahorel's shit, feuilly's freckles are like the stars, im not sorry, there are probably gonna be like 187 hamilton references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-02 23:31:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8687860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ierohno/pseuds/ierohno
Summary: "You what?""I may have put up an ad. And someone may have messaged me. Basically I'm moving out. Your new roommate will be there in twenty minutes.""Oh for fucks sake-" 
Bahorel is having a rough morning. Then a freckled red-head walks into his apartment.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> dedicated to my lovely friend hailey, who asked me to write this for her

"You what?"  


"I may have put up an ad. And someone may have messaged me. Basically I'm moving out. Your new roommate will be there in twenty minutes."  


"Oh for fucks sake-"  


Bahorel literally rolls out of bed. This is not his day. Not at all. He just wanted to wake up, have a protein shake, and go to work like a normal dude. He certainly wasn't expecting to get a call from his roommate, Grantaire, at nine o'clock one morning saying that he was moving out and that someone else would be moving in within the next twenty minutes.  


Of course, Bahorel has noticed that Grantaire has not been around much. He's always been out of the apartment they share. They're close, and have known each other for years, but this is out of the blue.  


"How did you even get your things out?" he asks with an angry huff, tugging on his boxers and stumbling tiredly into the kitchen. R has never done anything like this to him before.  


"I haven't gotten everything yet, Baz. Enjolras helped me get some stuff out last night when you crashed, but only necessities. The rest is in boxes in my closet. You should be proud of my productivity."  


"Your productivity? What the fuck. You're moving out and you didn't even warn me, what kind of friend-"  


"The best kind. Don't worry, you're gonna love him. Make some pancakes, he loves those." With that, his cynical friend hangs up on him. Bahorel resists the urge to chuck his phone across the room.  


"Goddamnit."  


He has to take a second to breathe, because what the fuck. Why would R even do that?  


The burly man pads into his bathroom and has a quick shower, just needing to calm down a little. He can't say no to the roommate, since he can't pay rent by himself. He just hopes the guy isn't some serial killer or weirdo.

Admittedly, he also has some weird friends.  


Only a few minutes after he'd gotten dressed there was  
a knock on the door. With a sigh, he opens it, and is surprised at what he sees.  


"Uh, hi. You're Josh?"  


The little dude in front of him can't be taller than 5'6. He's also very freckled. It brings out his eyes, which are a charming green. Bahorel is stunned into silence for a second.  


"Um. I'd say close but that's not close at all. I'm Bahorel."  


"I'm Feuilly," he replies, and has a little grin on his lips. "I have to tell Grantaire his ad was wrong."  


Bahorel raises an eyebrow. "So he wasn't kidding about  
the ad. What did it say?"  


"Ugly roommate for sale. That your name was Josh or something. Also that you're Jewish. Are you?"  


"No, actually. Wait. Are you calling me attractive?"  


Feuilly grins at him. "The ad said you were 5'7." With that, the freckled boy slips past him and inside, carrying a box. "Mind helping me carry a few boxes in?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for hailey <3

Bahorel calls Grantaire within ten minutes. 

"I will literally curb stomp you. You sold your space in the apartment for five dollars?"  


He can hear laughter in the background on the other end. It makes him grumble.  


"Technically, Baz, I sold you for five dollars. Listen. Feuilly is a great guy-"  


Bahorel hangs up.  


He goes back inside a few minutes later and finds Feuilly standing in the kitchen, putting a little potted cactus in the windowsill. This guy seems tiny and probably couldn't hurt a fly.  


"I guess this is a permanent arrangement now, huh?" he asks. This is the weirdest day of his life. Weirder than when he and Courfeyrac got stuck in a tree with a guy who has three pet monkeys that he taught to braid hair.  


"I'll pay the same amount of rent as Grantaire did. I also make decent spaghetti. I don't bring home random dudes either. I'll stay out of your way."  


"You're making dinner," is all he says, grabbing his keys and heading out. He has work. 

When he gets home, the apartment smells like heaven and noodles. Feuilly made dinner.  


"What the fuck," he says after he's tasted it. "Fuck R. This is some bomb ass spaghetti."  


Feuilly grins at him, and he can't bring himself to be angry. The guy just needs a place to stay.  


He goes to bed that night a little sad, because yeah. He's gonna miss R, even if he's an asshole and would rather live with his boyfriend than him. Grantaire has been part of his life for 10 years now. They've lived together for five. For that to change in one day is wild.  


But this can't be so bad. Just because this new guy moved in within a day and made really nice spaghetti doesn't mean he has to be nice to him. 

So, he resolves to keep emotions out of it. He won't let himself get close to this guy. Nope. He's going to put on a perpetual pout.  


The next morning is easy. He makes some cinnamon rolls and leaves a few for Feuilly in the microwave with a sticky note on the outside to let him know they were there. Just because he isn't gonna be that big of a dick.

He heads out for work without sticking around to see if Feuilly was going to get up any time soon. Work is a breeze. At least he can mix drinks and joke with Courfeyrac and forget his worries. Besides, even if he wanted to mope all day, there's too many broken glasses to sweep up and spills to wipe away, as well as bomb ass alcoholic concoctions to stir up. 

When he gets home, the apartment smells like food again. Feuilly is back. He huffs and tosses down his bag, padding into the kitchen. The freckled dude looks tired, but sends Bahorel a smile when he notices his presence. 

"Oh. Hey. Thanks for the cinnamon rolls. I only just got here a bit ago, but they were nice," he says, looking down at the stove. He appears to be cooking some kind of porkchops. Bahorel didn't know he had any of those in the freezer. 

"When did you leave this morning?" Bahorel asks him, surprised. He didn't know Feuilly left before him.

The little guy shrugs. "I leave around five." Bahorel blanches. He'd have to be awake at like, four in the morning. How does he function?

"Jesus, dude. That's early. Where do you work?" It strikes him that he hadn't thought about asking where his new housemate even worked at. 

"I deliver for a supermarket maybe 20 minutes from here? Yeah. It's nice. I brought some food and stuff back today. They usually let me have what no one orders that day. It's kind of well known so they normally sell most of it," he explains, and gestures at a few brown paper bags on the counter. Bahorel can't bring himself to hate this little dude, even if he wants to. 

"I may have to thank R for that ad," he hums, and slips over to investigate the bags, totally ignoring the giggle his new acquaintance lets out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @ hailey yeah this is still for you <3

Bahorel is a bitter guy. He's spent the past month in some permanent state of pouting. It's starting to piss Courfeyrac off. 

"My man. My dude. Bahorel. Listen," the curly-haired man says one night in the bar as they're mixing a few drinks. "You've got to cheer up. Or find better ways to cheer yourself up. Because this pout thing? Not a cute look on you. I'd know what's cute on you and what isn't." 

Bahorel sometimes wonders why the hell he puts up with this guy, then remembers Courfeyrac is one of his best friends, and their boss also has a crush on him, so it's probably in his best interest to not be a massive dick. Even if all he wants is to be a dick. 

Bahorel is not actually a bitter guy. He's normally loud and probably a little on the obnoxious side, but he's not mean-natured. He doesn't have the heart to be mean (unless some close-minded asshole waltzes in, then it's time for him to get aggressive.) But really, he just doesn't have it in him to be rude to people. Especially not his new housemate. It makes him huff and grumble constantly, but Feuilly is so sweet to him that he's pretty sure all his teeth are going to rot out from the sweetness. 

"I can't help it," he finally replies, in a grumpy tone. "I still can't believe R sold me for five dollars." 

"He didn't really. You do realize Grantaire really does love you, right? You're like, his best friend. Sitting down with you and telling you that he was moving out would probably have made him sad, so he just didn't say it. He probably did actually get five dollars from Feuilly, but still," Courfeyrac rambles. Bahorel feels a little warmer. 

"Did the infamous Courfeyrac just say something meaningful and intelligent?" he asks, feigning genuine shock. Courf shoves him, lightly. It's a fond shove, as shoves go. 

"Yeah, yeah. Shut up. Ooh, Combeferre's coming this way. Ohmygod, he's wearing those jeans-" 

Bahorel resigns himself to listening to his friend ramble about their boss's ass for the remainder of the evening. A normal day at work proceeds once more. 

When he arrives at the apartment a few hours later, it smells of food, as usual. He grins, padding into the kitchen. "What're you making?" he asks, peeking over his little friend's shoulder. The freckled man bats a hand at him. 

"Back off, mister. None for you until it's all done." 

Bahorel manages a pout. "Damn you and your excellent cooking," he says, and plops down onto a stool, resolving to actually wait for dinner to be done. It doesn't take long, and soon they're chatting happily over the meal his housemate prepared for them. 

"Wait, so-" Bahorel cuts himself off with a laugh. "You did what?" 

Feuilly tries to hide his blush behind his fork. "I couldn't just say no! I mean, c'mon, the poor lady needed help carrying all those oranges," he says, with an embarrassed giggle. 

"So you carried fifty-seven crates of oranges to this lady's car and didn't even question it?" 

Feuilly splutters. "I don't know- maybe she's running low on vitamin C? Or she's afraid of getting scurvy?" 

Bahorel almost drops his fork. "Jesus Christ, F-" he cuts himself off with a giggle, unable to even finish saying his friend's name. 

"What even is your name, man?" Bahorel asks, and panic rises at the look of excitement on Feuilly's face. "If you say 'Alexander Hamilton' I swear to fuck I am getting up and leaving right now and you're going to have to do the dishes on your own." Feuilly pouts. 

"Damn it, Baz. You're ruining my fun," he whines. Bahorel ignores the way the blush floods his own cheeks at the nickname, because Feuilly has never called him that before. Nice. 

"Really, though. How do you say it properly all the time?" he asks, and is pretty sure he shares his confusion with the entire human population. 

"Ohmygod. You just? You say it the same way I say it," he says, like it's that simple. "Feuilly," he repeats, pronouncing it slowly. 

"Fuck that. I'm just gonna call you things that start with the letter F." 

Feuilly looks startled. "You're kidding me." 

"What are you talking about, flash drive? I'm never kidding," Bahorel replies with a straight face, getting up to do the dishes. Feuilly starts laughing so hard that he falls out of his seat. "Damn it, fluoride, you weren't supposed to fall out of your chair," Bahorel says, and can't help the way he cackles between words. 

If he goes to bed with a smile that night, no one else has to know.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay, midterms are the epitome of hell 
> 
> for my love <3

Bahorel and R had an unspoken routine of sorts. They shared mornings in comfortable silence until they were both feeling more human--after their respective cups of coffee and protein shake. They left the apartment laughing at inside jokes or new tales to tell, chewing on toast or a poptart. They parted ways at the curb, catching different taxies. The two of them were reunited after Bahorel came back from work, and both of them complained about their days while making dinner. They ate while marathoning a TV show or putting on a movie. They stayed up talking about their troubles or things happening with the Amis. Bahorel would always listen to Grantaire ramble about Enjolras. 

Grantaire is quite literally the only man he knows who can seem to simultaneously hate and be in love with one man. 

Bahorel sort of misses it. Five years of a routine that was never boring is definitely something he knew he would miss. But now, he's in a bit of a sticky situation. 

He and Feuilly are developing an unspoken routine, too. And it's different. Very different. 

They wake and Bahorel literally rolls out of bed most mornings, because it always smells like heaven.

(He has been getting up earlier than he used to, as he wants to see Feuilly before he leaves. He wouldn't admit that if someone paid him). 

Feuilly always makes breakfast. No matter what he stirs up, it turns out delicious. Bahorel works out a little bit more, just because he's pretty sure he's going to gain weight from this extra eating all the time. Feuilly spoils him. 

He helps do the dishes, just so they don't have to be done when they get home. Bahorel knows that if he left them, Feuilly would do them by himself. He used to hate doing dishes, but they blow bubbles at each other and normally splash water. It is a lovely thing to wake up to. 

Feuilly always leaves the apartment laughing because Bahorel has told a dumb joke or called him a new nickname. He sort of asked Combeferre for a list of nouns that start with F. Surpringly enough, he was given a seven page list of F-nouns two days later. The man is reliable. 

Bahorel misses him when he leaves. He wouldn't say it, no way. But he misses the little hard-working ginger. He misses his freckles, misses his laughs and the look on his face when the taller of the two does something stupid, like drop an egg in an effort to help him make food. He misses him. 

He has a shower and goes to work and continues to miss Feuilly. Don't get him wrong, he misses Grantaire. But he sees Grantaire every day most of the time, and still texts him constantly. But the feeling is different. He doesn't quite understand it himself. 

The burly man is positive that coming home is the best part of the day. Feuilly is there, making dinner and grinning at him with his big smile and happy green eyes. Bahorel is not a man who is wooed by said things, but the little freckled dude absolutely makes him melt. 

"Hey there, fender," Bahorel hums, putting down his bag and toeing his shoes off. Feuilly laughs, and it gives Bahorel a little feeling in his chest he doesn't understand. 

"Hey there, blueberry," Feuilly teases at him, from where he is chopping up a cucumber. Bahorel stops in his tracks. 

"Did you just call me blueberry?" he asks, incredulous. 

"Maybe I did," he small man hums, looking up at him for a moment with a quirked eyebrow. Bahorel gasps, feigning a look of hurt. 

"That's my thing!" 

"Nope. We are sharing, as of now," he grins at him, and that's enough to make Bahorel relent. 

"Alright, fine. But my names are still cooler. Blueberry? Lame," he says, walking over to see what he's making. 

"Salad," replies Feuilly, as if he had to ask. Bahorel is immediately excited. Salads are his favorite. 

"Oh, man. Awesome! Do you need any help?" he asks, bouncy and entirely too prepared to help his little friend. The ginger nods and smiles at him in a way that is rare, tender. Bahorel has to pretend he isn't floored at the sight. 

"Okay. What do I do?" 

"Grab the tomatoes from the fridge," Feuilly instructs, moving on to mincing up a block of cheese. He's serious about his salad quality. Bahorel retrieves the tomatoes and pads back over, holding them diligently until Feuilly takes them and starts to cut them up as well. "Put on some music, Baz." 

Bahorel obliges, playing a playlist Courfeyrac made for him a while ago. He's got a terrible taste in music, according to the Amis. He can't help that he has a weakness for 90s songs. 

Feuilly laughs at the choice. "Courfeyrac made that, didn't he?" 

It occurs to Bahorel, right then, that Feuilly has fallen into step with the Amis like it's second nature for him. He's a part of the group, and they all adore him. It makes him smile. He's sort of helped Feuilly develop a home, with him and the Amis. 

"Yeah, he made it. He doesn't like my music taste," he replies with a shrug. "I think it's bomb as fuck." 

Feuilly giggles. Literally fucking giggles. Bahorel wants to scream. Being that cute has to be treason. 

"If you say so. 90s music isn't the best." Bahorel gasps. 

"I beg to differ!" the man huffs, crossing his arms. Feuilly just pats his shoulder, and he visibly softens. 

"Yeah, yeah. Salad will be done in a sec. Grab two plates?" 

Bahorel is weak. And so, so whipped. He grabs the plates.


End file.
